beautiful Eastern girl whose lot was so unlike her own. Only briefly,
however, for Thelma was of too happy a temperament, of too calm and
philosophical a mentality, to grieve vainly. It always put a song in her
day, too, to meet Joe upon the way. Not only on common farm topics were
she and Joe congenial companions, but in politics, the latest books, the
issues of foreign affairs, the new in science, they found a common
ground.

Joe's thoughts were of the Eastern girl, too, as he thundered down the
trail in his noisy wagon.

"I wish I could overtake her before she gets to the forks of the road,"
he said to himself. "I know she's not going to go my way farther than
that. But why is she here at all? There's nobody living down the river
road for miles, except old Fishing Teddy. She did dine at his expense
the day she came out to her sand-pile. He told me all about it the night
when we rode down from town together. Funny old squeak he is. But he
can't interest her. Hello! Yonder we are."

In three minutes he was beside the gray car, that was standing at the
point where the river road branched from the main trail.

"Good morning, Mr. Thomson. I knew you were coming this way, so I waited
for you here. I don't go down that road. You know why."

Jerry pointed toward the way down which her own land lay.

Joe lifted his hat in greeting, his cheeks flushing through the tan, for
his heart would jump furiously whenever he came into this girl's
presence.

"Good morning, Miss Swaim. I am glad you waited," he managed to say.
"You certainly know how to guide a car. I didn't know I was filling the
whole highway up at the bridge."

"Oh, there was plenty of room," Jerry said, indifferently.

"Yes, plenty if you know how to stick to it. That's the secret of a lot
of things, I guess--not finding a wider trail, but knowing how to drive
straight through on the one you have found."

Joe was talking to gain time with himself, for he was inwardly angry at
being upset every time he met this pretty girl.

This morning she seemed prettier than ever to his eyes. She was wearing
a cool gray-green hat above her golden-gleaming hair, and her sheer
gingham gown was stylishly summery. Exquisite taste in dress, as well as
love of romance, was a heritage from Lesa Swaim.

"You are a real philosopher and a poet," Jerry exclaimed, looking up
with wide-open eyes.

"A sort of Homer in homespun," Joe suggested.

"Probably; but I have a prose pur